


Tantrums

by purrslink



Category: A-Team (TV), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Face does not throw tantrums, no matter what anyone says! Murdock helps him get over the issue in a way only Murdock can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantrums

He does not throw tantrums.

He is nearing the big four-something (a gentleman never tells his age), has lived through college, been drunk more times than he can count, and has fought in a long, bloody war in a far off jungle in places that most people can’t without a dictionary and a drink. He’s slept with blondes, brunettes, red heads, and raven haired beauties, been beat up, beaten up other people, smoked cigars, slapped asses, driven hot cars, and shot off big fucking guns, sometimes in a matter of days.

Hardly the definition of someone who throws temper tantrums. Which he does not. No matter what Hannibal says.

He just wishes that the guys would be more considerate of how hard he works to con the things they need. Part of that con requires looking good. So every time Hannibal makes some smart ass comment about how he’s a commando soldier who doesn’t need that three piece suit in pristine condition, he’s really just saying that Face is going about his job all wrong, and how is that fair? If Hannibal needs three crates of chickens or twenty-eight Persian rugs, then he needs his suit.

Or when B.A. rolls his eyes and tells him to man up and get over the fact that, yes, this job might get dirty. He can deal with dirt, but does he have a choice? Yes. And who would choose to do things the fast, dirty way when there’s a clean, slightly slower way to get around things? He’s not in the jungle anymore and he has a choice, and god damn it, he’s going to choose.

Even Murdock sometimes gets in on the action, though never with the blunt way that B.A. uses or the driving way that Hannibal does. The pilot is just himself, and while sometimes Face wishes the Texan would defend the fact that, yes, his hair is worth keeping in the condition it’s in, or, of course, he has to skip out on this job because they need the con man to keep up his appearance just in case, Face can’t hold much against Murdock. After all, bad tension makes for bad bedfellows, and he hates sleeping back to back with the pilot instead of in the man’s arms.

But this time…

He might just sleep on the love seat in their room instead, because he’s pissed and tense and wanting to punch the next thing that comes near. It’s late, sleep would probably help, but he’s outside instead, smoking one of Hannibal’s cigars just to spite the old man and watching the Albuquerque lights blink in the distance.

The desert night should be soothing, particularly with the smell of rain on the breeze, but it’s not helping him feel any less jittery or agitated, like he should be moving but he doesn’t know which direction to move. And that’s partly what’s frustrating him, because he doesn’t know what to do, what to necessarily think right now, but he does know this.

He does not throw temper tantrums!

He almost misses the soft slide of the door to the hotel room inside, but he definitely doesn’t miss that drawl. “Faceman? You coming to bed?”

He can practically feel Murdock frowning at the cigar – the Texan hates kissing him after he’s smoked – but right now it doesn’t matter so much. The taste will be long gone before he goes to bed. “Just clearing my head, Murdock. Go back to sleep.”

But there’s no assenting words or swish of the door shutting. Instead two lanky arms wrap around his waist and a warm, lithe body is pressed into his back. “Been clearing your head for hours, baby. What’s got your wheel still running at this time of night?”

He’s not in the mood, not right now, not even for that drawl against his ear and he stiffens, arching his head away from what he knows to be a very talented mouth. “It’s nothing, Murdock. Just go back to bed.”

There’s a bit of hurt in that drawl now, but Murdock isn’t moving and he can feel the pilot resting his chin on his shoulder. “I’m awake now, Faceman. Why don’t I stay out here with you for a bit?”

Murdock isn’t going to move and that’s fine with him. It’s the pilot’s choice. He does sigh loudly to show he’d rather be alone, but predictably Murdock stays so he takes another long drag of his cigar. He’d rather not involved the pilot in his musings, but if the man stays he’s going to talk. And at times like these, he is fairly certain Murdock knows this, seeing how those thin arms are tightening slightly once more.

So he sighs. “I don’t throw tantrums.”

The pilot’s face turns to plant a kiss to his neck. “Is that what this is about? What the Colonel said? He didn’t mean it, Faceman. You know he’s just kidding with you.”

He doesn’t really, though. Sometimes he’s not entirely sure if Hannibal truly means what he says in that loving, jibing tone of his. There’s always the possibility, Face’s mind says, that the older man does mean what he says, and that thought terrifies him. “He didn’t sound like it. And I don’t whine.”

Another kiss to his neck has him shifting a bit because he can feel a shiver that’s not from the night breeze go through him. “You do a bit, baby.”

“I do not!” That’s the sentiment that started this whole thing, and he really does not whine as much as Hannibal seems to think! They just don’t understand. “And if I do it’s about something important. I have needs too, you know. Conning equipment isn’t exactly easy even with what I have.”

“Mmm,” Murdock hums into his neck and those lips find the crook, kissing and nuzzling into the soft skin there. “Whatever you say, baby.”

But he’s gone for the moment, ranting even as the cigar burns down. “I work hard to maintain my arsenal, Murdock, and then he comes and tells me I’m this commando soldier who should be able to con a house – a mansion no less – without the suit, the hotel, or the women, and in less time? Ha!

He takes another drag, narrowing his eyes until the city is a blur of white and yellow lights. “I don’t ask him to make by with one crate of chickens instead of three, do I? Or to do without the tank last week? Or even to make up something new, because there’s no way I’m going to turn myself in just to draw out this mafia guy!”

“Nope, not at all.” The pilot nips at his neck before he can go on, however, and the cigar trembles a bit, forgotten for the moment for a different reason entirely. “You’re the best con man ever, Faceman. You could charm the hat off the Pope and the President out of office if you wanted it.”

There are several responses to that he could retort with, but another bite followed by the fact that, suddenly, his fly is quite open and his shirt is two buttons from following, stops him. When had that happened? “Right, that’s what I said…”

Lanky fingers undo the last buttons and Murdock’s mouth is suddenly at his ear, blowing warm air across, softly, breathlessly. “Just the best, Faceman. You’re like a comic book hero, always gettin’ out of impossible situations and getting the girl and standing tall at the end as the baddies get carted off in the paddy wagon.”

“Paddy wagon?”

He knows the pilot is smiling now and he can feel a set of long fingers trace his underwear line before experimentally slipping beneath the elastic. “Downtown, the precinct, the slammer, the joint, jail, whatever you want to call it.”

Before even he knows it his own free hand is rising up and behind to run practiced fingers over the shell of the pilot’s ear and he can feel the pressure from Murdock’s head as the pilot leans into it. “You forgot prison.”

“My apologies.” Murdock’s head disappears from under his fingers and he finds his fingers suddenly in the pilot’s mouth, sucked on gently as a careful, strong tongue wraps around them slowly, weaving around the tips and over the calloused pads.

He’s been a bit hard since some time during his first rant, but now it’s just happening that much faster. And with one of Murdock’s hands half way in his underwear, he knows the pilot knows as well. As fingertips brush a nipple and Murdock affectionately licks Face’s fingertips, Face wonders what exactly he was doing out here again…

Oh yeah, right. “I don’t throw tantrums.”

The pilot has to pull back to talk, causing a slight groan from Face at the loss. “’Course not, baby.” And this time Murdock licks a long stripe from his neck to his upper cheek, blowing cool air on the area and tightening his hold when Face shivers. “You do what you gotta do.”

He really does love this man and part of him wants to turn in that arm, rip off the night shirt Murdock’s wearing, and kiss the crap out of him as they head for quarters more conducive to the ideas in his head. But he stays where he is because, yes, he likes the attention, likes being the one seduced. And while he may be the king of seduction, Murdock makes a very good queen of that title. It doesn’t happen often, however, making these moments that much more precious.

So he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth.

“Damn right I do.” Another puff on the cigar earns him a low, unhappy hum from Murdock, so he puts it out even while saying, “And sometimes that means having to remind Hannibal, albeit a bit verbally forceful, that I work best when not tied to a raft or hammering in nails.”

Murdock laughs a bit into his neck before nipping along the side to the jaw bone, interspersing small clicks of his teeth with, “Don’t need to…remind him baby…he knows and…he’s just confident…you can…get…the job done…no matter what.”

“Just like I’m sure he could do that Turkey job without the fourteen camels!” A slight shudder goes through him at the thought of having to burn that suit after that fiasco.

Yet Murdock just chuckles and kisses his cheek as the hand half way in his underwear dips further in and begins to move, tracing his hips. “Probably. But wouldn’t have been as fun. Don’t think I’ll forget the sight of the big guy in that outfit for as long as I live.”

He had to snort at that. “He looked good in orange, didn’t he?” But if he gets an answer he’s not sure, as Murdock’s hand dives in to curl around his cock and suddenly there’s really nothing more interesting or as important as what that hand is doing so expertly. “Ohh…”

Murdock is humming into his neck, happy, content noises meant to soothe and pacify, and he knows this and falls for it anyway. His hips are jerking forward now as the pilot’s other hand, so versed in multi-tasking, thumbs a nipple gently. “Thought you looked particularly good in that black get up, Facey.”

He doesn’t have a good response for that except, “Yeah?” His mind isn’t exactly on that job anymore, but on the here, the now, and the hot, tight feeling building up under those long, dexterous fingers.

Then, quite suddenly, he’s leaning back into the pilot, the Texan taking his weight in stride and nuzzling into his neck with an amused half-giggle. “Prettier than a magnolia blossom in May.”

The embellished accent would have him groaning, and indeed he does groan, but it’s not because he’s being called a Southern Belle. Hell, Southern Belle’s don’t get this type of treatment, and certainly not in the cooling desert air. “Murdock…”

“Shhh.” And the pilot grins into his neck before worrying his skin, careful not to break skin even as his hands move.

It’s that wonderful way the pilot draws out the ‘h’ and the way Murdock presses his own hardened member into him, hot breath on his neck, teeth grazing the first nub of his spine that has him moaning louder than he’s proud to admit. The heat starts in his stomach and spreads, and he can feel his sides shaking at the effort he’s taking to not come right there, right now, into the pilot’s hand and his pants. But it’s getting harder to hold it in and just when he’s afraid it’ll be over and this will end Murdock’s hand is leaving and giving an affectionate tickle to his hip bones.

It takes a deep breath to chase away the white at the edge of his vision before he growls, lightly, at the fact that now he’s completely turned on and aching for release. “Tease…”

Murdock smirking into his neck doesn’t help, and neither does the other hand that is trailing down his side. “Did you want something else, Faceman?”

He answers by turning and wrapping the pilot up in his own two-armed hold. The pilot manages to waggle his eyebrows before he’s being kissed, hard and desperately, Face’s tongue demanding entrance and rushing in when it is given.

By now he knows most of the tricks that get the pilot to stop smirking and start making some noise of his own, and sure enough when he bites down on the Texan’s lower lip and sucks forcefully he’s rewarded with a small whimper. It only serves for him to do it that much harder. And like magic, he’s rewarded with a low whine from the pilot and two sets of fingers slipping below his pant line and sliding down around his ass to drive him forward.

It’s glorious, glorious pressure that gets him to stop biting and groan at the fact that both of them are hard and needing and pressing into one another. “Murdock…”

The pilot waggles his eyebrows, though Face is pleased to note the Texan is flushed and his brown eyes are blown to the point of being black. “Why are we still on the balcony, muchacho?”

A great question – one he doesn’t have a good answer for. Because he can remember being annoyed about something, but even that last lingering anger is trickling away with the breeze and all he can think about is the fact that Murdock has that smirk again and he really, really needs to fuck this man right now.

So he swallows and runs a somewhat shaky hand through Murdock’s hair, tangling in the rat’s nest it turns into when the pilot sleeps. “Good question. Shall we, ah, adjourn to the bedroom?”

Murdock just leans down a bit to nip at his upper lip playfully. “Sure thing, Faceman.” There’s a pause in there though, and he waits despite the pain for the smug, “If you can make it that far.”

It’s on now.

With a bit of a growl he kisses the pilot again and they’re moving, a warm tangle of limbs that come together with two identical grunts when they hit the love seat. He almost succumbs to the allure of the couch, wrapping his hands around Murdock’s neck to keep the angle and grunting impatiently when he’s tugged up again.

By the time they finally make it to the queen-size bed, half rumpled from where the pilot had been asleep, he’s lost his jacket and shirt and has made disappointing process on getting Murdock’s night shirt off. It’s quickly remedied, however, with a few quick jerks on the soft cotton and by the time Murdock’s back hits the ugly floral sheets he’s down to his boxers and panting slightly. With a few swishes of designer suit pants, now on the ground and his brain uncaring at the fact they’ll have to be ironed tomorrow, he quickly pins Murdock where he is with a thrusting kiss, licking the roof of the pilot’s mouth and letting their tongues slide against the other.

Absorbing the pilot’s moan and shuddering at the fact that he’s the cause of it, Face reluctantly breaks the kiss for air and to run another hand through Murdock’s hair, cradling the pilot’s head as they both pant into the cool air. 

It’s Murdock who moves first, wrapping a leg around his and sliding it up slowly, ducking his head slightly to give him a coy look that is slightly ruined by the lopsided grin threatening to break through. “So, tiger, you goin’ to just look or what?”

Murdock’s hand traces his chest, following the lines of his pectorals down the sternum and to the fuzzy line on his stomach, soft and almost demure in doing so. But the pilot is anything but shy, particularly as his other leg is following the first.

“It is a nice sight,” he says, kissing his pilot’s neck heatedly before reaching a hand out for lube perched precariously on the night stand from last night. “If not still a bit too dressed up for what I have in mind.”

That got a laugh out of Murdock and he grinned at the warm sound it added to the room. He always did like the pilot’s laugh, always would, and sometimes during these sessions he’d tickled the pilot until he was gasping for breath, just to hear that deep laugh resound through the room. But as much as he loves it, he needs release, so he lets the laugh die and lets his own underwear drop to the floor before threading Murdock’s shorts off each leg, running a hand up the man’s thighs to reposition them more squarely on his shoulders.

He kisses Murdock again, slower this time, slicking his hand as they find a rhythm they both like before he parts with a small pop. “Ready?”

Murdock actually rolls his eyes, running a hand through Face’s hair this time before patting the con man’s cheek. “Don’t make me ask again, Faceman.”

So he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses in and moans himself at the tight heat, the warmth blossoming open underneath him, and when Murdock grunts he pauses and distracts his lover with kisses to the neck and shoulders. It’s a practiced routine that never gets old, that they have down to a graceful art and a calculated science, and the small signals are in place that, even half-gone as he is now, he knows. So when he feels Murdock’s hand rub the back of his neck he goes forward and soon, with a few slick swipes to his own member, he’s lining himself up.

“Fuck…” Because he really can’t say anything else about how it feels, slowly sliding in, feeling that heat and tightness even more acutely, almost coming off that first initial thrust alone.

The pilot shifts a bit and makes a low noise in the back of his throat, throwing his head back into the strewn sheets. “That’s about right…”

And he snorts even as he intakes a breath at the way Murdock clenches his muscles, on purpose or not the action still making him shake slightly. He doesn’t have a retort, however, because his mind is beginning to slow down and focus on the singular need to drive forward into his lover with every possible thing he has. So instead he traces Murdock’s knee, follows the sinewy muscle up to the Texan’s thigh as he sinks forward, and when he’s finally in fully he leans forward for one last kiss, letting the pilot adjust and lick his nose affectionately, the signal to go.

He’s damn good at sex, or he likes to think so. And he likes to think Murdock agrees, particularly when he has the man arching off the bed and clawing at the sheets the second thrust in, hitting that spot that he knows so well and can almost get to on the first time now. The sharp, high yelps he gets out of Murdock drive him faster and when he plants both hands on either side of the pilot’s head, sweat dripping down his neck as he feels himself coming close to the end, he forces himself to pause and kiss the pilot shakily.

“Face…” Murdock moans and brings his hands up to push Face up, watching him with confusion and pure need in those brown eyes.

But Face just smiles and raises an eyebrow, even though his own member is aching for those final few thrusts, and adjusts his balance to snake a hand down to wrap around Murdock’s cock. He hasn’t forgotten, can’t ever forget, and he plans on bringing the pilot with him over the edge just as furiously and as fast as he knows he’s going to go.

Murdock’s hips thrust up at the contact and the pilot closes his eyes at the echo of earlier, a smile and a laugh quivering on his lips. “Tease…”

“Learned from the best,” he says softly and Murdock smiles at that because they both know who is the master of seduction between them both.

It would be cruel to drag out it out further, however, so he moves his hand up, down, around, a jerk here and a twist there. The moans get shorter and shorter, melting into frantic mewling and when the pilot digs both hands into his hair, gripping the light brown roots to steady himself, Face knows the man is close and he can resume his own thrusts. He’s careful to keep his hips and hand in time with one another, feeling the pulse of the pilot’s body in his own hand and feeling the heat radiating from both Murdock and himself. Their scents mingle with the scent of sex and he can hear himself groaning in time with his thrusts just as Murdock’s small mewls follow the pattern as well.

They come so close to one another that he doesn’t bother thinking through who was first. All he knows is he had to close his eyes and brace himself heavily against the bed, hair wet and hanging in his face as his hand moves on its own, drawing the pilot’s orgasm out with long, slow strokes. He shudders even as he works, feeling intense heat as he fills the pilot even as that same, sticky heat covers his hand, and much too soon they’re both left empty, panting heavily.

There’s not much left to do but lean in for a kiss, his vision white even behind closed eyes and their lips are slow, languid, sloppy as they concentrate on finding the surface again. And as the slowly drift back up, he vaguely realizes that he can feel his heart beat in time with the pilot’s, and that Murdock’s legs have slid off his shoulders, replaced with two lanky arms drawing him close enough to feel each swallow the pilot takes.

Eventually, he does find that he can see again and though things are a bit blurry it’s enough for him to slide out and kiss the pilot on the chin, on the forehead, on the nose, and then on his mouth, less sloppy and much more purposeful this time.

Murdock hums happily, distantly, and he has to smile at the look in his man’s face; at the blown eyes on under cracked lids and the way those lanky fingers gently smooth his hair down. “Feel better?”

And honestly, as he wipes down the worst of the mess off with a towel left slung over the bed post, he doesn’t really remember what he is supposed to feel better about.

So he answers with another leisurely kiss before he nudges the pilot into bed and slips in with him. Their arms find each other and the cool sheets flutter down over heated skin as his forehead bumps against the pilot’s chin.

He closes his eyes to a quiet, “Love you, Temp.”

He smiles and drifts off, but not before saying, “Love you too, H.M.”

He’ll figure out what he’s supposed to be annoyed about in the morning. Maybe. If they don’t have a repeat performance with him returning the favor tomorrow morning. And if that isn’t the fodder for good dreams, he doesn’t know what is.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ateam_prompts](http://ateam-prompts.livejournal.com/) meme.


End file.
